Volume 1, Issue 5, 2016
Jola Peter Meinke, Eckerd College
hurt, I could only mutter things like “Oh my,” hoping they’d recognize it as
Illustration by Jeanne Meinke
Polish bus drivers are naturally optimistic, and thus are constantly being surprised when caught by red lights. On those rare times when the bus wasn’t crowded and it pulled to a suicide stop, I’ve seen a baby carriage shoot down the center aisle like a bowling ball. Poles are used to this, and there’s always someone who stops the carriage before it goes out the front window. More typically, though, the bus will be close-packed—people crammed in, carrying everything from stepladders to enormous cabbages— and when the driver hits the brakes, everyone is pressed so intimately against one another, there’s nothing to do but roll your eyes or propose marriage. I’ve been prevented from doing the latter by my inadequacy with the language. Pressed against women so beautiful that they made my teeth
English and reply in kind, which they never did. I met Jola on the bus. It was a cold and rainy September afternoon, and I hadn’t been in Warsaw long. I had fought my way onto the bus, but had been muscled backward on the steps by some very tough old ladies, and the door closed painfully on my foot. “Stop the bus!” I yelled. “Help!” Some savior pushed the right button and the door opened, but the crowd was so thick, I was pushed even farther out, and this time the door whacked me on my arms and shoulder before popping me permanently inside, except for the bottom of my raincoat. I was furious. “Damn this bus!” I shouted. “And damn everybody in it!” In my two weeks in Warsaw no one had understood a word I said, and I was getting used to speaking into a void.
“That’s really not necessary, or even
I’d even seen them working over a
very intelligent,” said a woman sitting
drunk or two. I wanted nothing to do
in the seat nearest the door.
with them. And because Poles for the
My anger, however, was stronger
most part ride the buses and trams in
than my surprise. “Listen,” I said, “in
total silence, our encounter was
America if the buses got crowded like
particularly strange. I went home and
this, we’d tip them over and burn
made myself a Polish martini: straight
them.”
Zytnia vodka with an olive swiped from
“Well,” the woman said, “that may be
the commissary tossed in. A terrific
constructive but it’s not our way. We
drink. I felt a lot better and forgot the
just keep our feet out of the doors.”
whole thing. After a few of those drinks
We were at the next stop, and I was backed out of the bus by passengers
I would forget who I was. I was—am—Paul Willis, that’s who. I
getting off and buffeted by people
live in a modest condo in Tampa,
trying to get on at the same time. I
illustrate magazine stories and, every
decided to walk the rest of the way,
once in a while, a cover. That’s where
despite the rain, and as I did I thought
the real money is—in covers. I got by
about that brief conversation.
all right (Florida has no income tax),
I’d been too upset to gather more
but my ex-wife Alison had always
than a vague impression of an
wanted me to teach; she said it was
attractive, well-dressed woman about
because the money would be steadier,
my age (which is thirty-two) who spoke
but secretly I thought she wanted to be
English with only a slight accent. What
able to say she was the wife of a
stuck with me was the feeling that
professor. Professors are reliable,
she’d been staring at me, even after I
unlike artists. Still, she was right—we
left the bus and began walking away. It
were always short of money until she
made me nervous. Was she going to
got a job. And that was what did us in.
report me to the police? I didn’t know
My conclusion after our breakup
Polish law—maybe you’re not allowed
was that marriage is dependent on the
to swear on buses. Creating a
dependence of women. Once Alison
Disturbance in a Public Vehicle. I’d
was independent, what did she need
been warned about the Warsaw police;
me for? We had no children, neither of
us possessing the patience to deal with
Mainly I needed a change. Poland
them. But marriage must have an
was going to fix me up, and it did,
element of need; desire’s too unstable
although not at first.
a vehicle, and when that disappears
Jola was waiting for me three days
you may as well get out the shredder.
later when I got on the bus at
Alison shredded me and then threw me
Sobieskiego, the same spot as before.
out.
I recognized her right away. She
Of course, this is a story about Jola,
moved a large bag of groceries from
not Alison. We were divorced and that’s
the seat next to her and motioned for
all. Then Poland beckoned.
me to sit down. I wasn’t used to sitting
Why Poland? I was commissioned to
when there were women standing, but
illustrate a large double-volume
I didn’t want to cause an international
collection of Polish fairy tales. This was
public incident, so I sat down. (”You
1978 and the new Pope and Isaac
phony pig,” Alison would have said).
Bashevis Singer’s winning the Nobel
The bag was too big for Jola, and with
Prize had given a strong impetus to the
much idiotic nodding and smiling we
Polish-American market. I had a
transferred it to my lap, putting my leg
brilliant idea. Wouldn’t the publishers
to sleep within two stops.
want to send me over there, for
“Your foot is better?” she asked.
authenticity? So I applied all over, at
“Yes, fine,” I said. “Wonderful.”
magazines from New York to L.A., and
She had large gray eyes, a
wound up with a bagful of commissions
gracefully curved nose and a positively
from food, sport, art, music magazines
sinful lower lip. She was so bundled up,
(“I’ll go to Chopin’s house,” I told
that’s about all I could tell.
them)—anyone who wanted sketches of things Polish. Combined with a check
“I hope you are enjoying your time in Poland,” she said.
and encouragement from the fairy tale
“Oh yes,” I lied. “Very much!”
folks, I gathered enough together to
“Yes,” she agreed, smiling. “Poland is
finance a reasonably luxurious six
like living in prison with wonderful
months in Warsaw.
people and good music.” I couldn’t think of anything to say to this, so I tried shifting the bag to my
other leg. Why was she smiling? Was this some sort of test? “You’re an American, I can tell,” she said. “That’s right. Paul Willis, from Tampa, Florida.” “The Large Orange,” she said. That
Conversation with Poles in those days was a tricky business. The natural ebb and flow of questions was more shadowy in Poland than in sunny Tampa. They thought obliquely, experts at reading between the lines. If we see a photograph of an accident, for
stopped me again. Did she think all
example, we might wonder who was
American cities had nicknames about
hurt, what the damages were. A Pole
fruits and vegetables? Madison, the Big
was likely to think, Why is that man in
Cheese. Boston the Little Bean.
the raincoat standing next to the
But within a few stops I had told her
woman with the briefcase? And there
my age, what I was doing in Warsaw
were so many topics that seemed
and where I was doing it. I didn’t even
difficult to discuss: communism, the
know her name. When I got up to leave
economy, Secretary Gierek, the Jewish
I nearly fell to my numb knees, and she
situation, strikes in the northern cities.
caught me by my elbow. “My name is Jola Malicka,” she said
At the same time, they were often outspoken about politics. A bus driver
as I was about to get off the bus. I was
would drive past the Russian-built
staying at the Bristol Hotel, a truly
Palace of Culture and spit noisily out
decadent bourgeois building and one of
the window. Shortly after my arrival
the few authentic structures left
someone blew up a bank in downtown
standing by the Nazis, who had
Warsaw, and the party-line papers said
quartered there. My room was
it was a gas explosion. I overheard
spacious, the bed set in an alcove
some Poles at the Embassy joking that,
separated from the main section by a
because there were no gas lines into
curtain. The bar downstairs was
that building, Gierek was sure to be
charming, the food terrible (the bread
nominated for the Nobel Prize in
seemed to harden between bites), the
Physics for changing electricity into
service slow, the music—usually a
gas. It all kept me unbalanced, and Jola
hunched-over pianist—excellent. I
just added to it. Was she a dissident or
thought of what Jola had said.
a secret-service person trying me out,
or a pretty young woman with a typical
doing. Poland doesn’t advertise itself
Polish sense of humor? Whatever, I
very well, she said.
wanted no part of it. I simply wanted to do my work. Actually, I wasn’t doing much work.
She lived in an ugly Russian-built apartment complex right on Sobieskiego, which was on a direct line
I walked around, I took some
from the Bristol and easy for me to
photographs. I read in the library of the
find. With a slight fluttering of nerves—
American embassy. I seemed to sleep a
hopeful for a seduction, fearful of an
lot. I spent my time writing to friends,
entrapment—I got on the bus and
sent postcards to my nieces and
went.
nephews, and drank coffee in the
Her apartment, on the third floor,
Bristol café. I worked on some
was striking. In counterpoint to the
desultory sketches, but basically
chintzy construction of the building, her
decided that I could do it all from
furniture was matched, solid and old,
photographs of Stare Miasto, the
giving the impression of heirlooms that
ancient center of Warsaw rebuilt in
have seen better surroundings. The
gorgeous detail after the Germans blew
walls were covered with artwork and
it up at the end of the War. I could take
posters that at first glance seemed
all my photos home and work in the
grotesque; a closer look confirmed it—
much more congenial weather and
snakes crawled out of eye sockets,
atmosphere of my studio in Tampa. But
potatoes sprouted from skulls, books
I was too embarrassed to go home
bled.
early. About a week after our second meeting I received a note from Jola, brought by the hotel porter. She invited
“You can see the psychological state of our country,” she said as I stared at them. There were just two other guests
me to a small party with English-
there—a tall, slender woman named
speaking Poles who, she wrote, could
Bozena, somewhat younger than Jola;
help me in my picture-gathering and
and a bearded, shaggy-haired man
introduce me to the Polish life in a
about my size—that is to say, average
more authentic manner than my library
build, five feet nine inches. A nice
research and scattered walking was
comfortable height, my mother used to
say as I stared enviously at my taller
time than Bozena and Pawel, who held
younger brothers.
regular jobs at the Uniwersytet
“Good evening,” the man said. “I am
Warszawski of a confusingly scholastic
Pawel Woźniak. We have almost the
nature.
same name.” His eyes were humorous
turned out that Bo was staying in Jola’s
and intelligent, peeking out from all
apartment that evening, and Pawel and
that hair. His English was excellent.
I headed home at the same time. He
Bozena’s—“Call me please Bo”—was
was carrying a large parcel in a cheap
marginal.
plastic bag.
Jola was a knockout. She wore a
Somewhat disappointingly, it
As we left each other at the bus
deep-blue formal dress that was both
stop he handed me a thick roll of about
modest and flattering to her full figure.
twenty posters.
A thin silver necklace and silver
“This is to remember me by,” he said.
earrings accentuated her long neck;
“These are posters by the best Polish
she had knotted her hair gracefully on
artists—Starowicki and the rest—most
top of her head, without pins—I was
of them signed. You will understand
later to see her perform this miraculous
Poland by studying them.”
operation—giving her a queenly bearing. And she was as good as her word. The three of them all had specific
“Oh no,” I said, truly moved. “I can’t accept this many. This is too much.” He had a very firm manner, and
and helpful suggestions as to where I
pressed them on me. “Let us just say
should take photographs or make
that I am repaying American
sketches: certain restaurants, cafés,
generosity.” We shook hands as my bus
markets, buildings, museums, galleries,
pulled in. “I hope we meet again,” he
concert halls, sports arenas. I wrote it
said. But we never did.
all down furiously, even when I didn’t
My first date with Jola was at the
understand what they were saying,
National Tennis Stadium to watch a
trying to seem like a responsible and
Davis Cup match—Puchar Davisa—
serious American. By the time the
between Poland and Italy. The large
evening was over, it was clear that Jola
crowd was dominated by about a dozen
had taken me under her wing. She was
voluble Italians, chanting the names of
a free-lance translator
their players; “Bar-ra-ZAT-ti” or “Pa-
and had more
nat-TA,” they yelled, while the Poles sat
smattering of premature white hair to
politely applauding the spectacular
make it dignified.
play. Toward the end, a single Pole,
During the next few weeks I
perhaps overcome by sips of vodka,
seemed to make progress on all fronts.
began chanting back, “Mac-a-RO-ni!”
With Jola I took hundreds of
and occasionally, mysteriously, in
photographs, made notes and sketches.
English, “Su-per-MAR-ket!” But few
We saw “Hamlet” by William Szekspir,
voices joined him.
listened to Chopin outdoors in Łazienki
It was a wonderful day. We had dinner in a Hungarian restaurant. We walked around Warsaw. On Krakowskie Przedmieście we sat down near the old statue of Copernicus holding his celestial sphere, and fed red squirrels and pigeons. She took me to a Pewex store that took only “hard currency” (dollars, francs, marks and pounds), and I bought some wooden dolls for my niece. I was about to fall in love. In Stare Miasto she took a little skip to catch up to me, and I was a goner. She even admired my moustache, which was the irresistible thing to do. Alison once told me—she was one of those
Park, concerts at the Filharmonia Narodowa; we saw “La Vie Parisienne”— Życie Paryskie —at the Operetka Warszawska; we bought goat cheese at the open market. Poland became suddenly rich for me, and has remained that way ever since. And our relationship hadn’t stood still. We had drinks in my poster-filled room at the Bristol and in her apartment, and had gone considerably past the good-night kiss. Jola wasn’t at all coy, but like some kind of Polish Cinderella, each midnight she slipped away. We often talked about traveling.
people who love to tell the truth,
She’d been to England (long ago),
especially if it hurts—that I had the
Rumania, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, and
most undistinguished face she had ever seen. This ultimately proved helpful: I grew my moustache, about which I’m extraordinarily vain. It’s thick and bushy, still black, with just a
I had been all through Europe with Alison. When I mentioned how Alison and I had liked West Berlin, she exclaimed that she’d love to see it. “Come with me,” I said. “I’ll take you there.”
Her gray eyes opened wider, and I
she told me. Nothing could have been
could feel myself falling into them.
further from my mind than
Then she smiled and took my hand.
Schopenhauer. Jola had a friend with
“Tak,” she said. “Yes. Why not? That sounds like a fine idea.” Nothing is easy in Poland, and there
an apartment in the resort town of Sopot, next to Gdansk; the friend wanted to visit Warsaw, so they agreed
were many arrangements to make, but
to exchange apartments for a week.
the American embassy people
We’d stop in Sopot overnight, fly to
smoothed my way. They like me
Berlin the next morning, stay four days
because I had got my room on my own,
and then return for a couple of days to
changed money on the black market
see Gdansk.
without bothering them, and didn’t
“This is not too expensive for you?”
pester them for commissary privileges.
she asked anxiously. I stuck a 1000-
They let me use the library and buy
zloty note in my mouth and began
stamps, and every once in a while I’d
chewing it; she laughed and pulled it
stroll through the commissary “on the
out. “You’re crazy,” she said. “You don’t
way to buy stamps,” and swipe a jar of
know anything about money.”
olives. Greg Smith, the cultural
She was right. But I did know I
attaché, told me I was much more
could get a thousand zlotys for nine
independent than the Fulbright
dollars on the black market, though the
professors who supposedly came for a
official rate was more than forty
Polish experience, and then fell all over
dollars. I was in good shape. I was
one another scratching to get at the
standing on my head out of sheer
peanut butter in the commissary. He
happiness.
helped get my visa and airplane ticket. Jola’s visa was slow coming
We arrived in Sopot by train in the dead of winter. The boardwalk and the
through, but she got it. She had the
town itself were practically deserted,
idea of flying from the Baltic port of
except for the restless gulls wheeling
Gdansk; it was a little cheaper, and she
and dipping. The emptiness of it all
could show me the area before I
delighted Jola.
showed her West Berlin. “It’s the birthplace of Schopenhauer, you know,”
“Poles do not understand the American fad of togetherness,” she
said. “We spend most of our energy trying to find some time, some place,
“You were marvelous,” I said. She smiled sleepily. “I couldn’t have
to be alone. I suppose it’s because we
done it alone!” She sat up and began to
have to ride crowded buses and trams
put up her hair with deft fingers.
so much. Of course,” she added, “we
“That’s amazing,” I said, “but it’s too
keep our feet out of the doors,” and she
early . . .” Jola smiled again. “You’re
put her head on my shoulder and gave
absolutely right.” Once more she let it
me the wide-eyed look.
down, and I pulled her to me.
We ate at the imposing Grand
Considerably later, I awoke in the
Hotel, sharing the large dining hall with
cold morning light. I could hear the
only one other couple. In America, this
shower running and I put the pillow
would be closed in a week. I stretched
over my head, dozing on and off, until I
out our dinner with an after-dinner
realized that the shower must have
drink and got greatly interested in the
been going for at least an hour. Either
scenery on our walk back to our
Jola had left the water running or she
apartment.
was going to shrivel up like a prune.
I was suddenly feeling like that
I got out of bed, stretching happily,
early Polish king Boleslaw the Shy. Not
and walked into the bathroom. She
so Jola. As I closed the door she
wasn’t there, so I turned off the
pressed herself against me.
shower.
Her eyes
were shining and she whispered, “Poor
“Let’s have a little efficiency around
baby!” and led me to the small
here,” I shouted to the apartment in
bedroom, fragrant with flowers left by
general. She wasn’t in the living room
her friend. I watched her let down her
either, and I found her note on the
beautiful hair, and then she turned out
kitchen table.
the light. Sometime toward morning I woke
“Darling, here is fresh bread, and cheese and milk are in the refrigerator.
up. The room was shadowy, but I could
Our flight has been delayed for a day,
see she was watching me, leaning over
and I am going to the airlines office to
on one shapely elbow. She reached
make sure they handle our tickets
over and pulled my moustache. I
correctly. No one speaks English there,
caught her hand.
so please wait here and don’t worry.”
I didn’t doubt it. Everything got
The next day, disheveled but sober,
delayed in Poland. The miracle was,
I made my way back by train to
they let us know about it. I must have
Warsaw, in a trip filled with more minor
slept through the telephone call. I
humiliations than I care to relate. They
smiled to myself: I could have slept
didn’t affect me much: I was filled to
through a German blitzkrieg.
the brim with my major humiliation.
By 2 p.m. she still hadn’t arrived, so
Four days later, while I was lying in
I decided to go to lunch at the Grand
bed staring at the ornate molding of my
Hotel. The minute I put on my jacket I
Hotel Bristol bedroom, Greg Smith
knew my passport, visa and airplane
called me. I had a special delivery
ticket were missing.
letter from London at the embassy. I
Within Poland in those days, you didn’t move without the proper
got right up, of course. When I went in to pick up the thick
identification, particularly in a strange
envelope, Greg stared at my unshaven
city. Ever since I arrived here, I’d
state. He was of the old school—a
patted my passport fifty times a day:
shave and a clean shirt every morning,
security blanket. I grabbed for my
or the natives will get you.
wallet. Relief flooded my chest as I saw
“I thought you were supposed to be
all my money, which was considerable,
in West Berlin,” he said, shaking his
still there; but on closer examination I
head.
found I was missing my American
I didn’t answer. Outside, I read the
Express card, driver’s license and
letter. “My dear Paul,” the letter began
probably one or two other cards. I still
in Jola’s familiar, sloping handwriting.
had my return trip to Warsaw.
“I am truly sorry. You perhaps would
Well, I wept. I shouted. I broke a
have helped us out without this
lamp. I drank the bottle of vodka in the
Byzantine plot, but we could not take
refrigerator. I didn’t even know how to
the chance. You remember Pawel, the
call the airport to see if the plane had
bearded man in my apartment? He is
left at 11 a.m. as scheduled, but
one of our best-known dissidents, a
anyway I was sure it had. I’d been
great patriot. We had long planned to
taken, that’s all. I wasn’t ready to
marry, but he could not get work in
figure out why.
Poland, and there was no way for him
to get a visa to leave the country
problem. I’ve already sold some of my
either. It was only a matter of time
sketches to Polska, Poland’s national
before they took mine away too. Or
magazine meant for export. Right now,
arrested him, or something. And then I
my sister and niece have taken over
met you—the same size, the same age,
my condo in Tampa. We shall see.
even the same initials (though ‘Michta’
Life isn’t easy here, but anything
is not his real name). And you could
can happen and I like that feeling. I’ve
get all those things he couldn’t—
even stopped being depressed about
passport, visa, airplane ticket. And so
Alison and now when I look at a woman
we used you. I enclose, however, all
on a crowded bus, I know beyond the
your cards and papers. We are all right
shadow of a doubt that the possibilities
now.
are endless.
Of course, my future husband doesn’t know the entire story. Men are such children, after all. But he is a very good man. And so are you. Goodby. Jola.” I felt angry for hours, stupid for days and miserable for weeks; but gradually I began to feel better. I’d been caught up in some international drama far beyond my importance, and all I could feel in the end was thankful to have taken part in it. And I came to realize that Jola had given me a gift, something I’d needed as much as her fiancé needed my papers—she’d made me feel desirable again. I’m still in Warsaw, trying to get my visa extended. Poland loves its artists and there’s plenty of work for me to do, so Greg Smith thinks it will be no